Our Precious Blood
by marjojo
Summary: Hermione, Ron and Harry must resign themselves to fighting in a battle that will kill two of every three. Complete.
1. O Let Us Nobly Die

Disclaimer: Harry, Ron, Hermione and the Harry Potter universe belong to the lovely and talented J. K. Rowling, not me.  
  
Setting: Hermione, Ron and Harry are 23. Voldemort is still at large, and more powerful than ever. Ron and Hermione, somehow, have never dated. They, and others, are all at Hogwarts, which has become sort of the headquarters for the 'forces of good.' Hermione is in some private spare bedroom in the castle.  
  
A/N: For some reason, I couldn't get italics to come up right on ff.net, so instead I used all capitals for emphasis. It doesn't necessarily mean that the words are being spoken loudly.  
  
Our Precious Blood  
  
Chapter 1: O Let Us Nobly Die  
  
Hermione was vaguely afraid she was wearing a hole in the bedroom floor with her pacing. Some morbid corner of her mind responded to this fear with the despairing thought that by tomorrow's end, Hogwarts would surely have much larger and deeper holes in it than the one she was now making. And the very NEXT moment she was surprised to discover that she was capable of still MORE gruesome musings: "Will I live to be glad that the reason for a hole in this castle is only pacing?" She pushed the thought away, as she'd been doing all day, since the meeting, but noted the increasing frequency of the idea as the day she feared would be her last faded into memory.  
  
She was running every detail of that morning's meeting through her mind, perhaps the way a prisoner relives his trial and conviction. But she was determined that this would be the last time she would desperately search for a solution, an alternative, and then she would work on resigning herself to tomorrow.  
  
Those who most actively opposed Voldemort had stuck closely together these last hard years. A large group of them had all been at Hogwarts the past week or two training, meeting, trying to decide on strategy and formulate new spells and weapons for the battle they believed would take place soon. Surely by next year, Hermione had thought.  
  
They had gathered that morning to receive the important information. Everyone in the wizarding world that Hermione knew and loved was there, along with some she knew only by name, and some she frankly didn't know at all. They had been seated about a large table; everyone had a clear view of every face.  
  
At the meeting, the Aurors had reported the intelligence they'd just received from certain spies: Voldemort's intentions and position. He wanted nothing more or less than the final and total annihilation of Hogwarts, the bastion of good, the school where Muggle-borns and purebloods learned magic side by side. And he wanted Harry Potter, its rallying cry, its champion, its hope: the one person whose very existence seemed to stand in the way of Voldemort's rise to complete domination. In the words of the report, read detachedly by the leader of the Aurors, Voldemort wanted  
  
"to take the life of the boy in his hand and crush it, to break his  
body, will, and heart with increasingly creative forms of torture  
until he loses all remnants of goodness and is taken over completely  
by the dark desires that he cherishes deep within himself. At this  
point the Dark Lord will offer the boy the chance to join him in his  
quest for power, and the boy will jump at the opportunity. The always  
gracious Lord Voldemort will then allow the boy the privilege of  
personally and brutally finishing off any of his friends that survive,  
before finally restoring him to his mind so that he may realize who  
has triumphed and what he himself has become and what he has done.  
Thus Harry Potter, the weak and defeated enemy of the great and  
powerful Dark Lord, will drink fully of the cup of utter despair  
before he is killed with the same curse that should have killed him so  
many years ago. Despised by the world he has failed to 'save,'  
completely alone and without any recourse, the boy will beg for mercy  
with his last breath."  
  
Hermione remembered vividly the chill she had felt all through her at the sickening details of Voldemort's plan for Harry. She had looked over at him as it was being read, had noted his ghostly white face and clenched fists and had been unable to recall ever seeing Harry so scared.  
  
The report then went on to enumerate Voldemort's forces, and state that they were already gathered all around Hogwarts, surrounding it completely. And they were planning on attacking tomorrow.  
  
At this announcement a profound quiet spread across the table. No one could speak. 'So it's finally come to this,' Hermione remembered thinking, as she watched her worst fear take shape before her eyes.  
  
Ron, the strategist, was the first to break the silence. "Right. So we've got to organize Harry's getaway." He turned to his best friend, speaking earnestly, persuasively. "A bunch of us can stay here to hold them off and give you time to find a safe place--"  
  
Uncharacteristically, Dumbledore interrupted, "Merely putting off the day when Harry will have to face Voldemort himself. Our losses--"  
  
"What kind of LOSSES?" Harry cut Dumbledore off, his voice anguished.  
  
There was another silence, this one with a tinge of awkwardness, because the people who would inevitably become 'losses' were present.  
  
"Th-there's no real way of knowing, Harry." Ron said nervously, "They outnumber us but we've got a defensive advantage, plus we've been warned and have a bit of time to prepare. But that's not the point, the goal is to buy you the time to get away--"  
  
Harry pounded his fist on the table impatiently. He did not speak loudly, but his voice sounded dangerous, seeming to come from a different place in his throat than usual. "How. Many. That's all I want to know. How. Many."  
  
"Two out of every three." Mad-Eye Moody gruffly stated in that conclusive, unarguable way he had. They all completely trusted the judgement and estimation of the battle-hardened veteran; his wisdom and expertise had already saved many of their lives.  
  
The silence that followed this pronouncement was punctuated by nervous glances around the table, as everyone wondered which of them would make it. Hermione looked first at Ron, who was staring at Harry, stricken. Then she looked to Harry, slumped in his chair, stunned. He seemed to have taken the figure like a physical blow. Hermione then looked back to Ron, who by that time was looking at her, his eyes wide with a fearful knowledge that she shared.  
  
"And if I stay." Harry had asked, his taut voice turning the question into a statement.  
  
As Hermione had known he would, Ron objected loudly, his face red and his eyes ablaze with a righteous anger that was based on a fierce desire to protect his friend at any cost. Any cost. Hermione agreed with Ron; Harry's survival was the most important thing. If that meant they'd all die defending him, well, that's what it meant.  
  
But Harry did not seem to want to be defended. He ignored Ron's protests completely, speaking over them, "Ron, I'm not asking you; I know exactly what you're going to say and I don't want to hear it! I'm asking Moody." He turned to Moody, bending close to him. "How many if I stay and fight? How many then?"  
  
"Still two thirds, Potter. But it's risking--"  
  
"No more than must be risked eventually." Dumbledore had said gravely, almost resignedly.  
  
"So you think we can win?" Harry had asked Dumbledore quietly, desperately. "If I stay, I can beat him, for good?" Hermione saw his eyes pleading with Dumbledore to tell him what he needed to hear. What they all needed to hear.  
  
Dumbledore had answered slowly and carefully. "I believe that if anyone is capable of defeating Voldemort, that person is, in all likelihood, you. If he was not aware of this, he would not desire your destruction so ardently. Unless you want to make it your goal to elude Voldemort for the rest of your life, you will have to face him one day. It may be that all you must do to win that final contest is to live through it. However, to survive him, you must not cringe or retreat. At the moment, Harry, you have only to ask yourself if that day is tomorrow and whether you have the courage not to flee him when the time does come." Looking back, Hermione had to wonder if Dumbledore had deliberately tried to direct Harry's decision. He had known precisely the right way to appeal to Harry to make him choose he did. As soon as the words were out of Dumbledore's mouth, Hermione had known exactly what Harry's choice would be.  
  
"Well, I do." Harry's bold words defied the fear that shook his voice, and his tone simply DARED opposition. "We need to organize a getaway for the rest of you."  
  
The outcry this declaration produced was instant and universal. Ron was the loudest, of course, voicing sentiments Hermione echoed. "We will NOT leave you to face him alone, we will NOT! I don't care what you say, Harry, we won't leave you alone..."  
  
Hermione watched, conflicted, as her two best friends' shouting match became the focus of the table's commotion. She understood why Harry felt as he did, but she wished he wouldn't push his friends away when he needed them most. She hated hearing them yell at each other, but the things they were saying needed to be said. Even if Harry would not consent to leave (it seemed less likely with every word he said), Ron's vehement protests should prove to Harry how dedicated his friend was to him. Hermione admired Ron for voicing this devotion and only hoped Harry would understand. He didn't appear to. Maybe the things Ron was saying WERE perfectly worthless, as they pertained to the group's planning and strategy, but that didn't mean that the sentiments behind them should run up against walls as well. Why was it that she and Ron both knew how much their best friend needed them now, but Harry himself seemed completely unaware of it? He was either unaware or in deep denial.  
  
"Yes you will, Ron!" Harry had answered heatedly. "You WILL leave me here! I won't LET you stay. You will NOT die for me, ENOUGH PEOPLE HAVE ALREADY."  
  
This statement ended the general clamor. Everyone deeply felt its gravity. The faces of the loved ones that each had lost to Voldemort flashed before them.  
  
Moody, a less sentimental person than should be humanly possible, finally broke the grief-filled silence and scolded Harry. "You're being ridiculous, Potter. First of all, it's logistically impossible. There's no way we can all get away in time without getting caught. We're surrounded on every side and they've surely got all kinds of spells and wards set up to make sure we stay put. And, personally, Potter, I'm insulted. Do you mean to imply that the rest of us DON'T have the courage that you brag to have? Nobody else here wants to run away either." At this, Harry did appear ashamed of himself. Hermione knew that hadn't been his intention. Moody went on, speaking practically. "Besides, you've got no chance of even reaching the Dark Lord without all of us. He's got an army gathered here, an ARMY. You ever seen an army of Dark wizards, Potter? They'll kill you before you get through the door. And then what's the fate of the world?" Moody concluded ironically.  
  
"So I'm supposed to ask MY FRIENDS to shield me from the Death Eaters, to die in front of me, INSTEAD of me, so that I can live long enough to get to Voldemort?" Harry sounded completely miserable. He spat the word 'I' with a self-loathing that had pained Hermione to hear.  
  
She had been moved to softly answer her friend's expectant grief and guilt with a remonstrating assurance: "You don't have to ask us, Harry. We're volunteering."  
  
Harry's head was down, hiding his face. He didn't see the round of nods and wasn't paying attention to the soft murmur of agreement around the table. At her words, he gave a sharp exhalation that was much too dry to be a small sob and had less humor in it than even the shortest, most bitter laugh. It was only because she'd been seated so close to him that she heard him mutter, "That's worse." It almost made Hermione wish she hadn't spoken; she immediately felt remorseful for having made everything more difficult for Harry, but she felt justified as well. Perhaps the knowledge was painful, but he had to know. He had to know that they loved him.  
  
Dumbledore finally called for a decision. "Harry. You must choose. It is up to you now, and no one will think any more or less of you for your choice. Since your suggestion of sending the rest of us to safety, is, as Alastor so succinctly put it, 'logistically impossible,' besides meaning certain failure and being the most ill-received idea I've ever heard--" Hermione marveled at Dumbledore's ability to see humor in the situation, and communicate it in such a way as to lighten the mood without offending anyone. Even Harry cracked the tiniest of smiles. "--it seems we have two options. You may stay here and fight with us, or you may go into hiding. You were most concerned about our losses--Alastor has informed us that, either way, we should expect to lose two thirds our number. And I have told you that, for you, confrontation with Voldemort is inevitable; your leaving would only put it off. If you stay--there is a chance. But that is all."  
  
It did not take Harry long to decide. When he spoke his voice was weary, more weary than any 23-year old should ever feel. It was almost as if making this choice had aged him fifty years. "All right, then."  
  
Ron, knowing, as Hermione did, what Harry meant by that, began to protest once again. But, deep down, Hermione knew there was no point; Harry would not change his mind now. However, perhaps it was important to resist this decision to the very last, since Harry was being so thick-skulled about understanding the real reason why they were doing it.  
  
Harry interrupted Ron's protests, and something authoritative and final in his tone made Ron give up and listen. "Yes, Ron! I won't run away from the same danger that my friends are willing to face.for my sake." Harry was speaking with quiet intensity, looking around the table at each of his friends, his eyes lingering the longest on Ron and Hermione. His voice, tone and delivery communicated his deep respect and love for his companions, his anticipatory guilt for their deaths, and his profound sense of being completely unworthy of friends so true, and of such an enormously weighty destiny. "If you're willing to die, then I am too." Harry paused, and added almost inaudibly, "Maybe more than willing." Hermione, hearing this, shuddered. Was it necessary to have a bit of a death wish to possess the bravery they needed to face tomorrow?  
  
After the moment of weakness he'd allowed himself had passed, Harry continued in a stronger, more sure voice. "I value the lives gathered here too much to let you throw them away just to buy me TIME." At this, Hermione noticed Harry's expression falter for a second. She imagined that the grim thought had occurred to him that perhaps he had just stumbled upon the ultimate purpose of his parents' deaths--they had only bought him time.  
  
Harry sighed before going on, gathering momentum as he tried to justify something they all found unjustifiable, but which needed to be justified if they were to do what must be done. "Professor Dumbledore says there's a chance, so that's what we're fighting for--a chance. But I pledge to all of you that I will do my utmost to make that chance into a victory. I'll hold nothing back. Nothing. I owe you that. I'm not worth fighting for; I'm not worth your lives. But.if we need to be fighting for something.maybe.victory is almost worth it. Victory and everything it would mean. Peace. Almost. As much as anything so abstract can be valuable, and as much as a life can have any price." Harry concluded quietly, apologetically. His last words searched for meaning, and fell quite short. He seemed aware of this, and something in his tone admitted it even as he spoke the words; there was a resigned fatigue in it. But Harry seemed like he was as much at peace with the situation as he was capable of being.  
  
"No, Harry." Neville Longbottom quietly contradicted. "I mean, you're right that no life can have a price, and all, but I don't think we're going to fight and die for victory or peace. That is, for myself, at least." He explained, looking nervously around the table. It wasn't often that Neville spoke up. He took a deep breath and continued, speaking slowly and looking inward for his words. "I'm going to fight, and maybe die, because.if we lose.if you die, Harry, and he wins.the world won't be worth living in."  
  
Neville was rewarded with a few nods. The meeting broke up soon after that; it had seemed like nothing else needed to be said.  
  
Pacing in her room, her reflections finished, Hermione finally understood that they really had no choice but to fight, and fight to the death. 'If Voldemort wins tomorrow,' she thought, 'he'll just make life hell, and kill us anyway, when our torture ceases to amuse him. I'd rather die quickly in battle than like that.' She thought of the students that were housed in the school with the fighters, and of the future they could expect if Voldemort won. She thought of the Muggle-borns.  
  
So Hermione decided she was now reconciled with the idea of fighting, and maybe dying. She had always agreed wholeheartedly that their cause was righteous, and every argument had persuaded her that this was the only way. Harry's survival meant Voldemort's defeat, and she was able to contribute to that directly. She had to fight, and maybe die, so she would. That was how it worked. That was how it had always worked in the past, when she took on too many projects at once. When something had to be done, it somehow always got done.  
  
But at the same time, Hermione was acutely aware of a part of her that held back from full accord with all the ideas and plans that she knew intellectually were true and necessary. Everything within her rebelled against the thought of dying; at a biological level, she found she could not accept it. 'I'm so young...' she thought, looking out the window at a painfully beautiful spring day.  
  
Just then a knock on her door interrupted her contemplation. She knew instantly who it was, and realized that without meaning to, without even being aware of it, she had been waiting for him. They had always gotten through times like these together; now they needed each other more than ever.  
  
She walked quickly over to the door and let Ron in.  
  
A/N: I wrote this fic before book 5 came out, so for all I know, some of the characters I use are really dead or horribly maimed or whatever. However, I honestly don't care because, for the purposes of this fic, I needed these characters to exist in order to say what I needed them to say. The universe of this fic is pretty unlikely to begin with, I freely admit it. But it's interesting!!  
  
Next chapter: Ron and Hermione's last night.  
  
Thanks for reading, please review!! 


	2. But First Let Us Fully Live

Disclaimer: JK's. Not mine.  
  
Our Precious Blood  
  
Chapter 2: But First Let Us Fully Live  
  
Hermione sat on the bed in silence with Ron quite a while. Neither seemed to have the slightest idea what to say; words felt meaningless and inadequate. Tomorrow loomed before them, and their past was achingly present. She wondered idly why she and Ron had never dated. She had gone out with only a handful of guys during their years at Hogwarts and after, but it never got serious. Ron had always hated the guys she dated, and showed his disapproval with insults, tirades, and the silent treatment. She had finally decided to stop bothering. To be quite honest, she'd never met a guy worth fighting with Ron over. The truth was, she had always been more attracted to Ron himself than to any other guy she'd ever known. He was fun to be with, and endlessly loyal to her and Harry, and infuriatingly...irresistible. That red hair... Hermione sometimes wondered if his criticisms of her boyfriends had come from jealousy, but if that had been the case, then wouldn't he have asked her out himself at some point? She had long ago chalked it up to brotherly protectiveness, assuming that Ron felt no such attraction. Her pride had taken his evident lack of feeling toward her as an insult, and she'd found herself completely unable to act on her attraction to him, especially because she'd never had any explicit encouragement from him. Even when it felt like so much more than just attraction. Like right now. With Ron sitting so close, and on a bed, she felt the air charged with an energy that had always somehow unnerved and calmed her at the same time. She took a moment or two acclimating to his presence, working on regaining her ability to think coherently.  
  
"Are you scared?" Hermione finally asked quietly.  
  
Ron didn't answer immediately. "Not really." She looked reproachfully at him, her eyes telling him that there was no reason for that; he should have left his bravado at the door. He understood her calling his bluff, smiled wryly, and admitted his fear. "Well, yes, right now I'm scared shitless." She smiled, and, for once, didn't scold his language. Ron went on to explain, speaking slowly and deliberately. "But.I think.when the time comes.I'll be able to..." Die? Or, worse, kill? "...do what I have to do."  
  
Hermione nodded. She felt the same way. Fear would become a nonissue when they were finally faced with the reality of battle. It was the anticipation that was maddening.  
  
"I wish Harry would have listened to you." She said.  
  
Ron ran his hand through his hair and leaned his elbows on his knees wearily. "Yeah. He just refused to accept the fact that we actually want to fight for him. The idiot is already blaming himself for all our deaths."  
  
"I imagine he feels the same way about us as we do about him. We just want to protect each other." Hermione said.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"He's just ignoring our reasons for wanting to protect him because he can't accept our... sacrifice. And because it would make it that much harder to lose us. That's because he does love us." Hermione danced on the edge of what she was sure was the real issue, and barely managed to keep the focus on Harry  
  
"I know." Ron said. "And he knows that we..."  
  
"Yes, he does know, deep down. But it's easier for him to deny it right now. It's the only way he's getting through this. I don't envy him one bit."  
  
"You're right; me neither." Ron said simply, contemplatively.  
  
Hermione smiled that Ron understood so thoroughly. "But still, it's not fair for him to try to keep us from fighting. It's not his choice."  
  
"It sure as hell isn't! Like he could stop me..When I think about the things they said they were going to do..." he shuddered. "I'd feel a lot better about this whole thing if I knew he was going to be safe and out of the way."  
  
"Me too." Hermione agreed. "But it wouldn't be like him to run."  
  
"No. Too bloody noble." There was both affection and frustration in Ron's voice. "It's just...I don't care what happens to me, as long as Harry makes it. I couldn't stand the thought of fighting.and maybe dying.if I couldn't believe that my fighting and dying meant that he would live. And if we're fighting to secure his getaway, it feels like his survival is more certain. Dumbledore's right; it would only put off his showdown with Voldemort, but at least then I wouldn't have to deal with the possibility of his dying. That's pretty selfish, isn't it? But it's how I feel."  
  
"I feel the same way. For you, is it because he's your best friend or because he's the Boy-Who-Lived?" Hermione asked. She thought she already knew the answer.  
  
Ron answered slowly. "Both, I think. He's my friend and I'd do anything for him. I mean that. I'd be willing to fight for him tomorrow even if that was all there was to it. But also, without him, there would be no...hope. Does that make any sense?"  
  
"Yes, it does. I remember reading about World War I, that when the nations' excuses for being at war seemed abstract and idiotic, the soldiers found a reason to fight in the man next to them. Harry's that and more. Harry's both someone to fight alongside and something to fight for: a friend and a cause. He thinks he's not worth it, but I think he is, and I know you do too." Hermione paused, and looked down at her hands. "I suppose we're a bit luckier than those soldiers. This war isn't meaningless, and, from what I've read at least, magical battles are usually a lot quicker and cleaner than trench warfare."  
  
"Leave it to you to give me a history lesson at a time like this." Ron teased feebly.  
  
"It's never too late to learn." She joked back halfheartedly before turning to what she was sure was his real reason for coming. Her voice didn't sound like her own when it came out. It was stiff and formal. "It, um, looks like we're actually going to have to follow through on all these high- minded sentiments. Two out of every three."  
  
He turned to her with eyes full of pain. "Hermione, I...."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I want you to take the getaway we were going to use for Harry. It's only open for a couple more hours and it's completely secure..."  
  
"Ron." She stopped him. She understood what he was trying to do; it was what he'd tried to do for Harry. But she couldn't let him do it. "I want to fight for Harry too. And if I leave, it means both of you will die. Two out of three. Harry's the one that has to make it, much as it pains me to think of you gone."  
  
"Damnit, Hermione, you're the smart one! Shouldn't you be telling me that statistics don't work like that! For all we know, we could all survive, and six strangers will die instead!" Ron immediately realized how horrible that idea was, and frantically backtracked. "Not that that's any better at all, it's just that I mean--"  
  
"I know how statistics work, Ron. I know there's always a chance. But I also know that if every one of us here doesn't stay and fight, then the statistics will be worse. It's like...each of us has to be willing to give all we have, if we're to have any hope of winning. Of Harry living. If we're not that committed, then Voldemort's already beaten us. And I am." She looked into his eyes, trying to convince him she was right. No, it looked like he knew she was right, but found himself unable to take it in fully. Her voice softened. "Ron, I don't like the idea of you fighting either. In fact, I think I hate it. But it's not as if we really have a choice."  
  
There was a pause. Something in Ron's eyes told her that he wanted to hug her, but was afraid to. It was as if he was afraid she would break. To reassure him, she took his hand. It instantly reminded her of the first time they'd ever held hands: while looking frantically for Harry after the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. The day that had begun Voldemort's second rise to power. Which would either be ended or cemented tomorrow. Hermione felt like she had come full circle.  
  
Ron seemed to have grown nostalgic as well. "You know, it's funny: maybe I should have gotten better marks in Divination." Ron said with a dry laugh. "Remember in the Shrieking Shack? What I said...somehow I knew even then..."  
  
"I wouldn't call that prophecy, Ron," Hermione corrected, depreciating the subject that had always annoyed her. "I'd call it...self-awareness. You knew yourself and your purpose well enough, even at thirteen, to be willing to die with your best friend." She smiled. "And you knew me well enough to include me in that. Remember, you said 'you'll have to kill all three of us.'"  
  
"Are you...prepared?" Ron asked her, after hesitating. He'd chosen his words carefully, so that she could avoid the real question if she wanted to, and ramble about the spells she'd practiced. But she knew what he meant--prepared to die.  
  
There was no point in running from it. She gave a short, sad laugh and answered honestly. "No. Can you ever be?"  
  
"I'm not either. I don't want.to have any regrets..." He closed his eyes and drew a shaky breath. He looked down at her hand in his, and seemed to draw courage from the sight of it. "Hermione, I...I...I've always...You....What's wrong?"  
  
The tenderness of his voice had told her instantly what he seemed incapable of saying aloud, and it had the power to spill the tears she'd been holding back all day. She tore her hand from his to cover her face.  
  
"Hermione?" he asked, his concern obvious. He hesitantly touched her hunched shoulder, and in response she swiftly threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing openly now. She knew her crying was quite loud and inelegant, but didn't care. Seeming stunned, he slowly wrapped his arms around her.  
  
"Wh-why didn't you ever t-tell me before?" Hermione asked brokenly between sobs, feebly beating a fist on his chest.  
  
He replied in disconnected self-deprecating phrases, his voice quite unsteady: "I--never got up the nerve--'cause I don't deserve you--and now it's too late and I've messed it all up--so sorry."  
  
"No, it's my fault too," Hermione pulled away to look at him as she protested, wiping her eyes. "I could have said something just as easily but I was too proud..."  
  
"You mean you..." Ron's eyes were wide, his voice disbelieving.  
  
Hermione couldn't believe that he hadn't known, and that he doubted now, what she was sure had always been embarrassingly obvious. The only response she found appropriate was to kiss him.  
  
It was light, and trembling, and soft. Weakened by their emotions, they only brushed their lips together repeatedly, not really having the strength or dexterity to apply any pressure. Their mouths slowly opened to each other, and, after an eternal moment in which they sat suspended in frozen time, Hermione tasted his shuddering, warm breath, and discovered in its fleeting sweetness all that they had lost and would lose. She sobbed against him and felt herself being pulled into his lap.  
  
He rocked her, and stroked her hair, and rubbed her back, and they pressed their wet cheeks together, mingling tears. Hermione clumsily tried to return these comforts to him, because he clearly felt the same sorrow, but her real and solid presence in his arms seemed to be what was helping him the most.  
  
As they wept together, their whispered assurances that they had always felt like this gave meaning to their past, and all regret soon faded far into the background, completely insignificant. Though it stung like cutting deeper into an open wound, it also somehow consoled them to speak of the future they could have had together. Together they built an alternate, happy ending, and lived it vicariously, all the way through, agonizing and relishing in the details of a life they would never survive to know.  
  
In time, all their tears were spilt, and, their eyes red and painfully dry, they gradually stopped weeping and began to breathe normally. Hermione marveled, not for the first time, at the purgative effects of a good cry. Without the distraction of crying and comforting to keep them from noticing it, they slowly became aware of their position in each others' arms. They wiped away the last tears, studying each other for a few moments.  
  
Finally Ron could stand it no longer; he pulled her face to his and kissed her firmly, decidedly, deliberately, savoring each instant. His lips seemed to innately know hers, and they kissed her exactly the way she needed to be kissed. It was so perfect that Hermione barely maintained the power or presence of mind to kiss back, but when she did, its effect on him was unmistakable. He shivered all through him, and placed his arms tightly around her, holding her body as close to him as possible. Though they concentrated their kisses on the lips, they also touched forehead, cheeks, eyelids, and hair. Once, while Ron was at work on her neck, Hermione glanced over his shoulder to see the sunset through the window, its red- gold hues blending into his hair. Gryffindor colors. For the brave.  
  
Hermione wasn't sure if they kissed like that for hours, or mere moments. Time seemed to be on hold; they experienced the deep friendship and unspoken attraction of their common past, the future they could have shared, and the present, with its indescribable depth of feeling, all at once. All their lives, no, all of history, culminated for them in this moment. They touched timelessness, and tasted eternity. She could have done this forever.  
  
But they didn't have forever.  
  
An instinct Hermione hadn't known she possessed told her that they needed each other tonight. They couldn't face death without first having lived.  
  
Slowly, she leaned back on the bed, and he followed, drawn only by his need for continued contact with her lips. It seemed that her mouth all he was aware of; he didn't even notice their change in position until Hermione suggestively wrapped her leg around his. When he felt this, he started to pull back, his eyes wide.  
  
"Hermione..." He began, the one word telling her all he wanted to say. He was simply shocked that she would be so forward (frankly, she surprised herself), and he wanted to know what she meant. But he was extremely reluctant to pull away; she was right that he needed this as well.  
  
"Ron, tomorrow..." Hermione started, her eyes communicating to him the grief she still felt at the thought, and her need for him now. She saw her pain and want reflected in his eyes.  
  
"Are you sure?" he asked softly, after a pause, his eyes earnestly searching hers.  
  
Hermione understood his hesitation because she felt it too. This wasn't how she had imagined her first time either. Before doing this, she wanted him to know that it was not just some animal urge to procreate before death; she didn't need him because of tomorrow. She needed him because she loved him; because of tomorrow, it had to be tonight. Hermione longed to tell him, but knew she was incapable of saying the words without starting to cry again, and, besides, the words were completely insufficient. She would show him instead. To begin, Hermione simply nodded, and touched his face, as if to say 'Only you.'  
  
If it hadn't been for the ever-present thought of tomorrow's battle, she knew Ron would have been smiling broadly with barely contained joy and triumph. As it was, that smile, instead of being spread all over his face, was fiercely concentrated in his eyes, where it mingled with sorrow. Convinced, he lowered himself to her again, to hold her quietly a moment, adorably careful not to crush her with all his weight at the same time.  
  
"I didn't come in here for this..." he whispered into her hair, his tone ironic but serious as well.  
  
Hermione smiled. He would be such a gentleman. "I know you didn't..." she assured him. She put her hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him up so she could see his face. His eyes were a brighter blue than she had ever imagined could exist. He was achingly beautiful, violently impassioned, completely sincere, and totally hers. She lifted her head so that their lips could meet this one, perfect, eternal time.  
  
And so they made love.  
  
The whole time, they were conscious that this was the first, last, and only night that they would do this beautiful thing that they should have been able to spend their lives on. This awareness was as severely painful as their lovemaking was acutely pleasurable. Though opposite, these simultaneous feelings did not cancel each other out, but instead heightened their perception of both. They embraced the rapture and the grief as they embraced each other-enthusiastically and without reservation. Because, as bittersweet as it was to mix such agony with the purest love, the intensity of the mixture was.life itself, all that the world had to offer, all at once.  
  
For Hermione, the sharpest grief came from the always-evident lack of a future in their loving. There was an undeniable futility in their love that threatened to suck away all its meaning, a pitiful sterility that made Hermione's belly ache to swell in a way she knew it never would. The most painful moment may have been when she saw, solid and clearly defined, a sudden vision of a red-headed toddler holding out a book for her to read to him. But the happiness she did feel, that final night, in Ron's arms, was enough. It could have lasted her a lifetime. How many people lived to a hundred and never knew such joy?  
  
When they were spent, they clung to each other until morning, sleeping deeply, but not very long.  
  
Upon waking, they smiled at each other: not lovers' silly, leering grins, but soldiers' smiles of grim agreement. They had finished their crying and their caresses. The time for love's dalliance was over; to try to prolong it now would only hurt more, to refuse to accept this was pointless.  
  
But they were content.  
  
The world had given them all they had any right to demand of it. Now they were to give back to the world the life they had enjoyed so briefly, but so thoroughly. Hermione and Ron were now ready to die for Harry Potter, their friend, who they loved, and whose survival meant victory.  
  
A/N: I have to give credit where it's due: the title of the fic and chapter one's title come from a poem by Claude McKay (1889-1948) called 'If We Must Die' (1919). The entire line is: "If we must die, O let us nobly die, / So that our precious blood may not be shed / In vain." This was the end this fic, obviously. I hope you enjoyed it, this was SOO much fun to write! Please review! P.S. For something a bit more lighthearted, try my other new R/H fic, Don't Bet on Love. 


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